


How Lucky You Are to be Alive

by RosaFloribunda



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, In the Heights - Miranda, Minor or Background Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eleanor Rose "Nelly" Conway Madison is a BAMF, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, It's pretty sad actually, Jefferson and Hamilton hate each other's guts as usual..., M/M, Or do they?, Sick Character, Sickfic, Terminal Illnesses, Thomas Jefferson being Nice for Once, Usnavi makes a cameo eventually, but James is a fighter, with a heart of Pure Gold™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-20 02:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaFloribunda/pseuds/RosaFloribunda
Summary: *APOLOGIES FOR THE CHEESY SUMMARY AHEAD, ESPECIALLY THE LAST LINE*James Madison is sixteen years old and he is going to die. Luckily, he has two amazing friends to help lighten the load. But what happens when Alexander Hamilton, a tough-talking chronic lung patient from Nevis via New York, and Thomas Jefferson, a genteel farmer's son born and raised in Virginia, meet and instantly despise each other? Can they keep from killing each other in Madison's company? Will love win out over hatred?*I DID WARN YOU*





	1. That Idiot from Debate

Pain.

That's all James can feel when he wakes up.

Pain everywhere. In his bones, muscles, organs, running through his blood like a river of fire. Pain in his head that makes it feel as if his brain's oozing out through his ears. Pain in his stomach that makes him double over, groaning and heaving.

Vomit splatters into the bucket by his bed. At least he aimed correctly this time. He hates making more cleaning work for his mom on top of everything else she has to do for him.

Ah, good. The fact that the guilt is returning means the pain is ebbing away. Slowly at first, it leeches out of his head and neck, then his spinal cord and finally his arms and legs. A state of lassitude fills him and he leans wearily against the bedpost. Still, this constant tiredness and nausea is better than every part of his body screaming at him to _do something! Take something! Anything to make the pain go away!_

He knows of fellow-sufferers that have OD'd on whatever medicine they had that way.

There is a soft knock on his door and his father enters, forcing a smile. "How are you today, champ? Oh - Jem -" as he catches sight of the bucket.

"I'm sorry, Dad," James whispers, ashamed but too weak to blush.

"Never mind. You know it's not your fault. Better out than in, right?" And James Madison Sr. gives his son a soft clap on the shoulder as he passes with the bucket.

James realises that this means nil by mouth for the rest of the morning, not that that differs from every other morning this week, of course, but last night he had really thought it might be different the next day. Oh, well. He'd deal with it. Besides, he had a steady stream of vitamins, etc, flowing into him through an IV drip. He didn't need to worry about wasting away. 

So, too tired to do anything else, he curls up (facing the door - if he doesn't face the door he'll be lying on the multiple tubes protruding from his arm, which, as he well knows, is very uncomfortable in multiple ways) and dozes off.

He is awoken by the sound of a familiar voice coming from downstairs. "Ah, Mrs. Madison! What a pleasure to see you again."

James' mother giggles, a rare sound in the Madison house nowadays, but beautiful. "Call me Nelly, dear. Jemmy's in his bedroom."

( _As if I'm ever anywhere else except the hospital,_ James thinks.)

"I think he's sleeping, though," continues Mrs. Madison, lowering her voice a little. "Do you want me to take a look?"

"Nah, let him sleep," Thomas says, and James can hear his relaxed smile. "I'll just chill here until he wakes up. If that's okay with you, of course, Mrs. Madison, ma'am."

James shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath and shouts with all of his strength, "I'm awake!"

It's pathetic. A pathetic sound. But the effort of making it exhausts James so much that he flops once more onto his pillows and groans quietly.

"I thought I heard something." His mom's confused voice filters up from the kitchen where she is probably making Thomas a sandwich or something. Now that most of James' nutrition is pumped into his body intravenously, her wonderful cooking skills are being rusticated, and she likes to practice on Thomas if he comes around. _When_ he comes around. _It's pretty much every day now,_ thinks James with a rush of affection.

"It's Jemmy," says Thomas immediately. "May I -"

"You don't need to ask, dear."

The sound of pounding feet would normally worsen James' inevitable headache, but they're Thomas' feet, so it's okay. It's better than okay, actually.

Thomas bursts into the room and James fills his eyes with magenta pullover and wild hair. He knows his own hair has been reduced to stubble and that his grey pyjamas are most likely damp with sweat (and tears, but naturally James prefers not to think about that). This time he really does blush.

"Hey! Jem!" half-sings Thomas, his bright, genuine grin so wide it might split his face in two. "I gotta tell you about what this one idiot said in debate, it's hilarious. And I brought mac 'n cheese."

He actually did, the bastard. It's the kind out of a packet as well. Disgusting. Still, James knows his mom would want him to eat some, and it's basically the only thing he will eat nowadays. Because Thomas makes it. And he always makes it in a big red bowl and covers the top with tinfoil to keep it warm that he immediately rips off as soon as he gets into James' room, the cheesy smell wafting everywhere and covering up the uglier smells of bile and those little pink pills that taste like acid on his tongue but that help keep the pain at bay.

"Have some," Thomas invites, sitting down on the edge of the bed and handing a spoon to James as he himself gets stuck in. "So do you want a school story? Any news from the hospital?"

"Nope," James says hoarsely, taking a tiny bite and immediately regretting it - the packet macaroni and cheese honestly is the worst. "Tell me about the idiot."

He really does want to hear. He hasn't been to school for the past eighteen months, after all, and Thomas knows this, Thomas is his lifeline to the world of education that he has lost.

"So we were debating about France -"

"Oh, God, Tommy," interrupts James, but it's not because he knows that France is the touchiest of all touchy subjects for his friend and that anyone who insults the country is going to go down. It's because a shaft of sunlight just shone through the window straight into his eyes and coupled with Thomas' loud, excited voice James thinks his head might actually explode with pain.

But Thomas knows what's happening, as always. He jumps up, the bowl of pasta wobbling dangerously on the bed, and wrenches the curtains closed. When he sits down again it is with a much gentler manner. James has a pillow over his head and is panting rapidly, and Thomas, muttering something indistinct but comforting, massages his free arm. Eventually the former pokes his head out.

"You okay?" Thomas asks softly.

They established very early on that 'okay' doesn't actually mean 'okay', it just means 'not in so much pain that James' parents have to be summoned'. So James nods and gives his friend a weak smile. "Okay. Tell me."

"Right, so. There's this new kid. He's so weird. Talks like he's from the Caribbean but he looks Hispanic and he apparently comes from New York? Like, I don't even know. Anyway, he thinks that we should just go backsies on our treaty because, and I'm quoting verbatim here, King Louis is 'super dead'!"

James laughs wheezily.

"Exactly! But Mr. Washington agreed with him even though his argument had more holes than a freaking colander. Neither of them have any sense of loyalty. And the worst thing is, Gilbert, you know Gil Lafayette - the _French_ kid - Gilbert agreed with him as well!"

"That doesn't make any sense," James frowns.

"Jemmy, you're preaching to the choir. I don't understand it either. Gil, Hercules Mulligan from Textiles and Design, Laurens from second period math, the Schuyler sisters... they all just seemed to love him immediately!"

"Well, I'm with you," promises James from his prostrate position, reaching out to grasp Thomas' hand. Thomas smiles down at him.

"Thanks, Jem. You're a pal. Well, I gotta go - I've got, like, ten hours of homework tonight. Do you want me to leave the mac 'n cheese here?"

James shakes his head very slowly and carefully so as to not get dizzy again. Thomas understands, and extracts his hand to smooth the foil down over the top of the half-empty bowl.

When the taller boy looks up, they exchange a long look.

Then James coughs into one hand and waves the other at Thomas. "Go on, you," he chokes. "Do your homework."

When Thomas leaves, glancing one last time at his friend before shutting the dark wooden door behind him carefully, it's like the room goes cold. The red curtains softly glow with the light outside, but inside it is as chilly and dark as the depths of a refrigerator. James can only barely read the clock's dim numbers, but when his eyes focus on them he can see they say 15:37.

It's going to be a long afternoon.

Occasionally his mom comes in to check on the huddled boy, and the nurse's visit is at five as usual, but other than that (and neither of them do more than exchange a few pleasantries with him) he is left alone. His thoughts are varied - of Thomas, of his friends from the paediatric hospital back in NYC, of his parents and grown-up siblings, of himself. Mostly of himself. _James Madison, you are a selfish person,_ one side of him argues. But the other side disagrees. _Surely one is allowed a little self-pity when one is dying?_

The sound of his phone ringing abruptly disturbs his morbid thoughts. Who is calling him? Thomas again?

It's not Thomas.

"Yo!" a crackling voice greets him. "What's the haps, Mads?"

"Just considering my own mortality, Ham," he answers, feeling a smile creep its way onto his face. There's no one he can talk more freely with than Alexander Hamilton. "You?"

There is laughter from the caller. "Pretty much the same, my man, but listen - I've been discharged!"

"No way! Since when?"

"Yesterday. They've gotten me a huge bottle of pills and a foster family, and my prognosis is good, _good_ , and you'll never guess where I'm staying!"

"Mars," says James rudely. He winces at his own tone, but he can't help it - it's been a long time since his own prognosis was good.

Silence, then: "Oh, man, I'm sorry, _perdóname_. That was a dick move."

James sighs. "Not a problem. Tell me."

"Only Port Conway, Virginia!"

The resulting cheer can be heard throughout the house, and James' parents start up simultaneously before realising with relief it wasn't a scream, not this time.

"Yeah, I started school right away. It's really cool - there are some idiots, this one guy called Jaffacake or some shit, but everyone else is cool. And I'm gonna come around to see you tomorrow. It's still 1751 Belle Grove Avenue, isn't it?"

"Yeah," James says excitedly. "My God, Hamilton, how did you manage -"

"Benefits of double pneumonia of the lungs, Madison," the crackly voice says smugly, and James begins half-laughing, half-coughing. When he recovers he quickly speaks into the phone to assure Alexander he hasn't gone into a fit.

"You're one lucky guy. Well, I'll see you tomorrow then."

"See you, Mads!"

"Bye. Oh, if you come at around three you can meet Thom -"

The line goes dead, and James smiles tiredly, slipping the phone into its cradle and lying back down. He can't wait to have his two best friends meet at last.

He's sure they're going to just _love_ each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh James, my sweet summer child. *sniffs* I'M NOT CRYING, YOU'RE CRYING!
> 
> PS. Comments make me a happy bunny


	2. Hamiltoad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some pretty broad language from our good friend A. Ham. I've actually been wondering whether I should change this to Mature rating. What do you guys think?

The next day passes very like the previous, with one major difference - the Walk. James dreads the Walk, but it has to happen. He needs 'fresh air'. And sunlight, too; not that there is any shortage of that in Virginia, but usually James doesn't even like his curtains open, much less the idea of a trip outside. It took a great deal of coaxing from both parents, his college-aged brothers Francis and Ambrose (separately, but both by Skype, which just confirmed James' suspicion that they had a kind of telepathic link that as the sickly younger brother he was not worthy of sharing), Thomas, Thomas' friend Aaron Burr who smiled way too much and tried very unsuccessfully not to stare at James' various pieces of medical machinery, no less than three doctors and his home-visit nurse before James would even consider going out for a Walk once a week.

Not that the name is in any way relevant. James does not Walk. He is wheeled along by his dad while his mom pushes the aforementioned machinery behind them on its big white stand. The boy himself usually has a large wool blanket over him even though ninety-nine percent of the time it's scorching hot. James just feels the chill more than other people. His mom says that's perfectly understandable, but when he sees the pitying or amused gazes of passers-by as he is wheeled around the usual circuit of two blocks by three, he doesn't think it is. Nobody really understands what's wrong with James. Not his parents, not the doctors and nurse, not anyone. They don't even have a name for his condition, for God's sake. The last he heard they were thinking of naming it Madison's disease.

 _Hey_ , Alex said one night at the hospital while all the little girls and boys with leukaemia and CF and rickets were snoring around them, _at least the Madison legacy is secure._

James remembers in the neverending stretch of time between his front door and the end of the Walk how he answered with a shrug and a noncommittal _Sure,_ and then cried himself to sleep. Only he didn't sleep. He still needs drugs for that, and so does Alex, presumably. Alex's wakefulness isn't caused by his lung problems, though. He just thinks too much. Thinks too fast. Whatever you like to call it.

Sometimes James wonders if Thomas doesn't have the same problem. If he does, though, he's damn good at hiding it.

His father wheels him back inside over one of the expensive metal ramps that some charity paid to have installed throughout their home, and helps him into the stairlift. James feels the beginning of another headache coming on. Still, at least it didn't happen during the Walk; at least he didn't have a sudden migraine or worse, a fit where the entire adult unemployed population of Port Conway could see him. That had happened once before. And for some reason - maybe God was having a bad day and wanted a laugh - James was completely conscious during the whole thing.

He shudders.

"Are you okay, Jem?" his mom asks from the bottom of the stairs, her face concerned and not a little frightened. James nods hurriedly to reassure her, but the coldness closing into him doesn't seem like his mother's brand of 'okay', which means 'everything's hunky dory and fantastic'. It seems much closer to Thomas' 'okay', which means 'I'm not dead yet'.

Good Lord, how he wants Thomas.

He knows he's being needy and irrational, and that Thomas will be there in a matter of only a few hours, but so sue him, he wants his friend _right now_. Is that so much of a crime?

His father scales the stairs easily, two at a time, and picks up his (admittedly very small and frail) son without so much as breaking a sweat. Within the minute James is deposited in his bed, with fresh sheets, a new eiderdown, his machines positioned to the left and his stack of favourite books, phone and clock to the right, and the curtains closed just the right amount to pleasantly shade the room. James feels tears pricking at his eyes. How can he be so ungrateful? His parents give him everything he needs and more and his best friend comes around five times a week with food and gossip. He is truly lucky. Luckier than Alex -

"Alex!"

James sits bolt upright, and immediately reaches to the left for a pill, which he swallows dry and simply crosses his fingers he won't throw it back up. This isn't a morphine day, but he knows it's pretty bad when he just blacks out like that. What woke him up? A shout from downstairs, his brain provides. Who's here?

"Well, Alex, how wonderful to see you again! What brings you to the area?"

"How's it going, Nelly?" asks Alex suavely - he has always been suave, even when only just out of a coma. "You are looking great, if you don't mind me saying so. No, yeah, I'm being fostered by the Washingtons. Wonderful people, do you know them? You do? That's fantastic, we'll have to have dinner together sometime!"

James sits with his hands primly folded over his chest (his pulse always speeds up just after he is suddenly awoken) and thinks that Alex must be settling into his new household pretty quickly if he's already making dinner invites in their name.

"So is it possible for me to see your son? He said around three, I believe. And my ma used to say turn up five minutes late to an engagement unless it's in a restaurant or a kid's birthday party. She knew all about that sort of stuff. So it's three-oh-five and here I am, and can I just say, Nelly, your new carpets are just the coolest. They match the walls so well. And I love the colour scheme. Green and brown, what an inspired choice!"

 _Stop running your mouth off, Hamilton,_ James groans inwardly. _Stop complimenting my parents' interior design choices and stop telling childhood anecdotes! And just come up, you piece of-_

"Well, thank you so much, dear! Would you like a snack at all?"

_No, no, NO!_

"No, thanks, but could I use your stairlift? I'm finding it a bit difficult to get up and down stairs right now, I'm sure you understand."

"Oh, of course," Mrs. Madison hastens to assure him. James hears the beep and creak of the stairlift descending to pick up Alex and silently rejoices. When there is a rap on his door he rejoices even more, and whacks his pillow with a free hand twice, their old sign for 'come in'.

Alex enters, and James' beaming smile rapidly falters. He is wearing a nasal cannula, a plastic nose tube that connects to a backpack slung over his shoulder which probably contains an oxygen tank.

"Oh, is it the...?" Alex gestures vaguely behind him.

James nods. "When did -"

"When I was discharged. I forgot to tell you, didn't I? Oh, Jesus, I'm fucking up in all kinds of ways today." Alex presses his forehead and lets out a dramatic sigh.

James giggles, his hand over his mouth. "I know now," he hastens to reassure the boy, who raises his eyebrows.

"Really. How? Oh, right, it's the pieces of plastic sticking out of my nostrils, isn't it?"

"Come here, Ham." James holds out his arms, and Alex gives him a brief hug before instantly pulling away.

"Christ, Mads, you're soaking wet. Nightmare?"

"Not that I can remember," James shrugs. "I think it's just a part of the furniture now. I feel cold but actually I'm hot enough to melt the Arctic."

"Aw, that sucks, man," Alex says sympathetically, heaving his backpack onto the bed and sitting down himself. "Listen, good news - I swear you've grown."

James brightens up. "You think?"

"Absolutely. I'm like 5'7 now, and looking at you, you're only two inches _at most_ shorter than me, so you have to be at least 5'5."

"Neither of us are standing," points out James, a little crestfallen. "How can you tell?"

"A-Ham always knows." Alex does the wiggly-fingers magic thing and looks around him. "Your room is awesome, you know that? Red curtains. I'm not sure whether that's really classy or really emo."

James would laugh, but this is Alex - he doles out compliments faster than Aaron Burr running for student body president. It's just a part of who he is. Still, when he's against something politically he can't help but be abrupt and sometimes even cruel. James has been on the receiving end of that more than once. _Madison, you're completely nuts, I swear,_ Alex snapped one time when they were debating something about what the nation was doing with its money. _Take your medicine and shut up!_

James cried again after that, but not because he was particularly hurt by his friend's words - he knew Alex was his friend whatever the other boy said in the heat of the moment - it was because he was on this one drug that made him emotionally unstable for like a week at a time and also because he had heard the doctors talking to his mom and saying he was unlikely to live past twenty.

Well, he's nearly seventeen now and still going strong. Suck on that, 'medical professionals'.

"Hey, Mads, are you yet in the land of the living?" Alex quotes, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Just barely," James responds automatically. "Fancy a game of chess?"

Alex's eyes crinkle up at the corners in happiness. "Yes! Where's your board?"

James points to a shelf on which lies a large wooden box. Alex grabs it, pulls out the faded board and sets up the pieces. Both white and black, actually. James wonders whether he should play a little practical joke, and decides what the hell.

"Sorry, Ham," he says innocently. "It's technically an illegal move to set up the opponent's pieces for them. You lose."

"WHAT THE F-"

There is fluttering and tweeting from outside the window as Alex's incredulous screech reverberates throughout the neighbourhood. Yep, even the birds in the trees are frightened. And so they should be. One other thing about the guy? He's _really_ competitive.

Then come the noises from downstairs and then the sound of someone pelting up the stairs, dragging his hand along the bannister as he goes so there is also an unearthly squeaking sound. James claps a pillow over his head and tries to block out everything. But the crash of the door opening is pretty hard to ignore.

"Jem?" A shout of alarm. A familiar smell. James starts to shake as his head throbs insistently. "What are you doing here? What have you done to him?" The voice is quieter now, deadly. "You better get the goddamn hell out of this room, Hamiltoad."

James can't stop hurting long enough to understand who 'Hamiltoad' is or even who's talking. All he registers is a brief wrassling match and the door slamming closed once again, and then someone is touching his arm and he howls in agony.

"I'm going to turn up your codeine, Jem," says the voice softly, and the grip on his arm slackens as its perpetrator reaches over to the left, to the machines. "Do you understand?"

James doesn't understand anything except the fact that there's a black hole between his ears and it's consuming his entire body in spasms of pain. But the voice is so soothing, and the hand rubbing circles and curlicues and figure-8's on his tortured arm so constant that eventually the pull of the black hole slackens and he feels like perhaps it wouldn't be the end of the world if he came out from underneath his pillow.

When he does, though, he looks around in confusion at seeing a different face than the one which had been there before. "Wha - Tom? Where's Hamilton?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cries*
> 
> PS. Comments provide candles to light my way into Hell


	3. Eunice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: swear words aplenty

_"Wha - Tom? Where's Hamilton?"_

Thomas stares at him for what seems like quite a long time. James' eyes are bright and pleading. Why? "Right outside, I guess, I chucked him out for ya. But Jem - this is the second day in a row this has happened -"

"Never mind that," James interrupts him. "Did you fight him?"

"Um, a little bit?" At his friend's shocked expression Thomas shakes his head furiously. "Don't worry, I didn't do anything to his nose tube thingy. I'm not a total prick like some people who _come into other people's rooms_ and _scream at them_..."

"He didn't know," the other boy says softly. "Tommy, let him back in. I want you two to meet each other properly. I kind of ruined your first introduction."

"But that wasn't your fault, it was his!" Thomas manages to check his steadily rising tone by tugging at his tie until it almost chokes him. His tie is magenta, James notes affectionately. As usual.

"Please let him in." James' voice is as quiet as always, but Thomas can sense he means business, and so reluctantly shuffles across the fluffy beige carpet to open the door.

The very second he turns the doorknob, though, Alex comes barreling in, a whirlwind of Caribbean fury. "What are you on, you... you pompasetting, doltish joneser!"

"I literally have no idea what you just said," smirks Thomas, easily fending off the smaller boy with one hand.

"Let me put it in simpler terms for a simple mind like yours," Alex snarls, and proceeds to spit out a choice selection of four-letter words. The air is practically turning blue around him, and James shrinks back very slightly.

"Ham, don't."

Alex ignores him, still trying to throw punches at an amused Jefferson. "Just as useless at rebuttal as you are in class, huh, Mr. Age of Englightenment?"

"And you're just as eloquent, darling," Thomas responds with a sweet smile. "Now, to borrow your own phrase, shut the fuck up."

James whacks his hand down onto the chessboard, sending pieces scattering everywhere. "Thomas Eustace Randolph Jefferson!" he wheezes, and both boys freeze. "Stop fighting! Just stop it! You'll hurt yourselves, or hurt each other, or knock something over," this with a pointed glance at his machines, "and for God's sake I don't even know what you're arguing about!"

"Many things," says Alex darkly, dusting himself off as Thomas sheepishly lets him go and leans against the bedpost. The only reason the latter isn't whistling innocently is because of his concern for James' headache. "Mads, how do you know Thomas Eunice whateverthefuckhisnameis, and why am I supposed to put up with his shit?"

"It's Eustace," growls Thomas.

Alex corrects him immediately and with a sly grin. "Actually it's Eunice?"

"It's Eustace," agrees James, sitting up a little. "Ham, don't you remember I told you Thomas was coming around today as well?"

"I come around every day," says Thomas indignantly.

"And Thomas, I didn't get a chance to tell you, but surely you remember me mentioning Alex Hamilton?"

The two boys, short, skinny, pale Hamilton with his ripped jeans and muddy backpack, and tall, muscled, dark Jefferson with his (now slightly skew-whiff) pink tie and smart leather satchel, view each other with deep and unfounded suspicion. "No," they say almost in unison.

"Alex Hamilton. Alexander Hamilton! We wrote the Federalist Papers when we were in hospital together! Tom Jefferson, I swear I talk about him every time I call you, Ham! Come on, guys!" James pleads with them as they continue to stare at each other. "You remember, don't you? ...Guys?"

Thomas sighs and reaches for the bowl of macaroni cheese that he had brought in and slung onto a high shelf at some point. "All I remember is Hamiltoad here coming into school, palling up with Burr and..."

As the taller boy glances at James, lying in bed small and fragile, surrounded by enormous beeping boxes and medicine bottles and with an expression on his face like he's barely holding in tears, he realises for the first time how important this is to his friend. It's no big deal to Thomas - he doesn't get along with a lot of people in this life, Aaron Burr and Lafayette who he pals around with at school are more like frenemies than actual friends - but then he has his mates from France and his dad's work friends' kids and his multitude of sisters, Jane-Mary-Lucy-Anna-Elizabeth-Martha... and James, of course. But James has exactly two friends. Two. That's him and this Hamiltoad. He can very well see (even though empathy is not one of Thomas' strong points) that if they hate each other it might be a devastating blow to the boy. And that would hurt Thomas more than anything; much more, for example, than, say, trying to make amends with Hamilton.

Or pretending like he already has.

"P-palling up with B-Burr and..." (go the fuck away, nervous stammer) "palling up with me too because we're good friends, aren't we, Ham?"

Thomas extends his hand to Alex with a cheesy grin that has nothing to do with the mouthful of mac 'n cheese that he has just hurriedly swallowed. The latter gapes for a moment before _finally_ understanding and reaching out to shake it. "Thomas Eunice, my man. What a guy. Uh, why were we fighting again?"

"No clue at all, Hamiltoad - Hamilton, I mean. Probably just a friendly sort of scuffle. Wasn't a big deal, right?"

"Of course not, Tommy J. We're pals!" And Alex draws Thomas in for the big manly hug, even though he's about a foot shorter than him. There is backslapping involved. Of course that's one-sided backslapping, as Alex is still wearing his massive oxygen rucksack thing. Seriously. It's almost as big as he is.

When the hug finishes both of them withdraw with mutual glares and very red faces, but James is delighted. "Thank goodness," he cheers hoarsely. "For a moment I was worried that you might hate each other or something."

Thomas sits down on his (real) friend's bed and gives James his first (real) smile of the day. "Why would we ever hate each other?" he says comfortingly. "I'm always up for a _friendly_ debate, you know that."

Alex snorts from where he is slouching in a chair in the corner - that's James' mom's chair, where she sits with her sewing when he's having a bad night - and Thomas wheels around to look at him pointedly. Very. Pointedly.

"Um, yep, absolutely," says Alex hurriedly. "That's my dude. Thomas Eunice Jaffacake."

Thomas scowls at him and Alex scowls right back. James, meanwhile, is struggling to think where he's heard that before. Didn't Alex talk about a guy called Jaffacake last night? He was so tired then that he can't really remember. He's pretty tired now, actually. Sudden attacks of pain like that always take it out of him, and that codeine is such a nice, floaty drug, it makes him feel like he's sitting on a cloud, yes, that's it, a cloud, just drifting across the sky without a care for where it's going...

"Oh, shit, James!" Alex jumps out of his chair, and Thomas half-rises defensively.

"Calm down, Hamiltoad, he's just asleep. That microwave thing over there with the squiggly lines would stop beeping if he -" Thomas swallows and presses a hand over his eyes, remembering the day it did stop beeping, three months ago. He had been so scared. But thank God, he was in the room when it happened and able to call 911. That's when James' mom and dad installed a baby monitor despite their son's ardent protest. The very same monitor, in fact, that Alexander Hamilton has just knocked onto the floor.

"Oops," says the latter quietly, and returns it to its post by the bed.

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Let's go."

Outside the room Alex hits Thomas quite hard. "You need to stop calling me Hamiltoad."

"When you stop calling me A. Eunice and B. fucking _Jaffacake_ ," retorts Thomas, on his tiptoes to better tower over the small teenager.

"At least your nickname bears some relation to your actual personality: i.e. fruity, bitter and unlikeable. What gives with mine?"

"I call you Hamiltoad because you're a little toady to Mr. Washington, that's what gives."

"Well, he is technically my foster dad. I don't want to piss him off, do I?"

"Ohhh!" Thomas has on a face of exaggerated comprehension. "Now I understand! We got a case of _nepotism_ up in here!"

"Why, you -"

There, at the top of the stairs, they have the silentest of all silent fights, no holds barred: there is pulling of hair, scratching, biting (Thomas wonders whether he needs a tetanus jab), kicking, Chinese burns and everything else the two boys can think of. As if by instinct, though, Thomas avoids Alex's face and backpack, so eventually the smaller contestant comes out on top.

"Ha," whispers Alex triumphantly. "I win."

"Only because I'm a gentleman," puffs Thomas, easily pulling himself out of the headlock Alex has him in by literally just standing up and letting him drop to the ground. "And a gentleman doesn't beat up..." _Sick kids,_ he wants to say, but for once in his life shows some tact. "Little boys."

They part at the Madisons' front door with their feeling of mutual distaste only strengthened, and Thomas is just planning out a speech to completely destroy Alex in the Comparative Religions debate the next day when he wheels around in horror and yells, "HAMILTOAD?"

"WHAT?" shouts Alex from across the street.

"YOU'RE NOT IN ORCHESTRA, ARE YOU?"

"DAMN RIGHT I AM, EUNICE SWEETHEART!"

Thomas nearly screams in frustration, and hollers, "CHOIR TOO, I BET?"

"YEP. AND MODEL UNITED NATIONS, FUTURE LEADERS OF AMERICA, CREATIVE WRITING, LEGAL SOCIETY, AND -"

Alex is abruptly shushed by a cross little old lady as he reaches the bus stop, but a minute later Jefferson's heart plummets like a stone as he hears a text notification. Pulling out his iPhone, he sees a message from an unknown number.

UNKNOWN: & glee club & bridge & classics soc lol

Thomas groans and types: You know I am also in every one of those clubs.

A moment later comes another notification. UNKNOWN: yh & i look forward 2 beating u @ everythng

TO UNKNOWN: Fuck you, Hamiltoad, how did you get my number?

UNKNOWN: gil lafayette lololol

TO UNKNOWN: Well, you can tell him from me that he's a traitor. What do you even play in orch?

UNKNOWN: steel drums m8

TO UNKNOWN: youve got to be kidding!

UNKNOWN: Punctuation, please, Jaffacake my old chum. Yes, I am pulling your leg rather - I also play other forms of percussion, such as timpani and glockenspiel amongst others. Have a nice day!

TO UNKNOWN: My sister Jane is the percussionist, we don't need another one. Sorry. And Washington can't help you here; Mr. Adams is the music teacher, not your Daddy.

UNKNOWN: he is not my daddy Eunice u pice of shit I will fight u again ok! bsides we'll see 2morrow whose the best percussionist me or Jaffacake 2

TO UNKNOWN: Actually Jane's Jaffacake 1, she's six foot three and plays collegiate basketball, and she could probably pick you up and crush you with one hand. Fancy your chances? I don't.

UNKNOWN: u jiust called her jaffacake ahahahahahaha

This witty debate continues long into the night while James sleeps unknowingly, with ungentlemanly insults such as 'bastard' and 'whoreson' being traded freely. By the morning, however, both Alex and Thomas agree on one thing - they may pretend they get along for James' sake, but out of his sight it will take extreme and unusual forms of torture to make them be civil.

And they have to share a homeroom, three classes and no less than nine extracurricular activities.

What the hell have they gotten themselves into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton called Jefferson a stupid show-off crack addict. To be fair, at least one of those things is true.
> 
> PS. Comments help to find my precioussssssssss


	4. Tom and Jerry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: small mentions of cancer, surgery and very minor character death.

James wakes up sick to his stomach, but it's good - it's better than good, it's brilliant! Being sick means he is being given more drugs (his nurse, Sister Lewis, agreed with Thomas wholeheartedly about the codeine) but being given more drugs means less pain and that is definitely good news. As long as he doesn't build up a resistance to this like he did to the last lot. It was like being addicted; the only way around it was to go cold turkey for a couple of days, which he spent in his hospital bed, waking up, screaming, and falling unconscious again on an irregular cycle. Eventually they decided his system was clear enough for a different family of drugs and the cycle ended at last.

 _It was the weirdest weekend we've ever had,_ Alex told him later. _We'd be playing cards in the rec room and all of a sudden there would be this scream, you know? Freaked me out, man._

James can certainly scream when he wants to, so they say. It's odd that his default speaking volume is so low. Whereas Alex, who couldn't scream if he tried because of his errant lungs, talks so much and so loudly that people usually get annoyed at him within a minute of him starting to speak. Thomas is something like that as well, but his parents are always on at him to be polite and keep his tongue under control, so he'll start talking and stop and then start and stop again, and it takes him a while to get going. This sometimes irritates people even more than Alex's style of 'talk until you're done talking and don't take a breath at all during the middle even though sudden asphyxiation is an actual real problem that you have to deal with'.

He wonders who the teachers like best. He wonders who will do best at their classes - Thomas is smart, but Alex's study to sleep ratio is alarming at the best of times. Is that good or bad for grades? He used to know, but right now he can't remember.

James misses school. He used to pal around with Thomas all the time (and sometimes Aaron Burr too, but not often); they were the best of friends, working on every project together, in the same teams and the same clubs, eating lunch together, practising music together in free periods. James played the double bass, a steady _continuo_ hum to Thomas' quick, dazzling scales and arpeggios on the violin. But then the music started giving him migraines, and he stuck it out for a few weeks, but Thomas noticed (Thomas always notices) and made him quit. Just until you get better, his friend had promised. It'll pass. It always does.

It didn't.

James collapsed one day in the middle of an argument between Thomas and Hercules Mulligan. He had to go to the tiny local hospital and the next day, too weak to walk, he came to school in a wheelchair. Then came the shaded glasses so he wouldn't get a headache from bright lights, then the pills, one with every meal, two, three, four. Thomas had never cared what anyone thought of them being so close but now he started hugging James less, just casually touching him less, standing further away. Was he embarrassed? Did he not want to catch whatever James had? James confronted him and he admitted how scared he was that he could be the one to bring on the next episode - _episodes_ were what the teachers called fits - and James told him that he didn't care about that, he just wanted his friend by his side.

Thomas had caught his shoulders and kissed him, and that was all James remembered.

When he woke up he was in a strange, unfamiliar bed, Alex next to him hooked up to a special Breathing Machine™. His heavy breathing led James to believe the other boy was asleep, but Alex proved him wrong by suddenly sitting up and saying "So. What type of cancer do you have?"

He had asked that, and James had reached up to his head and found it was bald and burst into tears, and a nurse had run over and explained that James didn't have cancer, they didn't know quite what he had yet, but they had shaved his head in preparation for brain surgery so they could find out.

When she left and James had dried his tears on the corner of the blanket, Alex introduced himself and apologised profusely. And thus a friendship was born out of Alex's complete lack of ability to think before he spoke. Alex freely admitted he had no other friends, and James didn't know anyone on the ward - there wasn't exactly a support group for kids with 'Madison's disease'. The New York City Presidential Paediatric Hospital didn't allow visitors, and James wasn't allowed technology because the light of the screens was too much for him, thus he and Thomas couldn't meet up or contact each other. So Alex and James made a nice little pair, their bond only solidified when James had his surgery and it basically told the doctors nothing and Alex wrote _and sang_ for him a sweet little song called 'Dear Madison, at least you don't have cancer'. He was always doing stuff like that, making the children on the ward laugh. God knows they needed it. 

It was months before James was allowed to go home (well, not really home, it was a hospice near Richmond, but at least it was the right state) and during that time they wrote eighty-five essays with the help of another kid, John Jay. John Jay _did_ have cancer - Hodgkin's lymphoma, said Alex knowingly - and he died rather abruptly in his sleep one night. James was sorry, but despite the NYCPPH being the best in the world kids died there all the time. He was going to die, if not then, then soon. Alex was going to die and he was perfectly cheerful about that. So he pushed away feelings for John and thoughts of Thomas, whether he was waiting and worrying or had forgotten him already, and with a shaky hand wrote twenty-nine papers on the history of the Constitution while Alex furiously tapped at his busted old laptop's keyboard and completed the other fifty-one. Why did they do it? Quite simply, they were running out of time. Alex wanted to do something while he was still able, and James wanted a purpose and a mission to stop the rising flood of depression that threatened to drown him as he lay stranded on that strange mechanical bed. They called them 'The Federalist Papers', and they were their magnum opus.

James had his twenty-nine on a bookshelf, all in his sloping, half-unintelligible print (he couldn't look at what he was writing as he was doing it in case another headache came on, so the words didn't follow the lines and wobbled up and down like a five-year-old's) and copies of Alex's fifty-one had a filing cabinet all to themselves. Thomas had read Alex's first and admitted they were good, he supposed, but all wrong in their interpretation. He'd loved James', though. Said they were works of genius and asked how did he do it? Part of that might have been rose-coloured glasses, of course, due to not having seen him for six months. His grades had slipped because James wasn't there to help him, and he didn't have James in orchestra to surreptitiously play his notes in difficult passages, and he had missed him so much, and when was he coming back to school?

James couldn't just say 'never', so he smiled and touched Thomas' hand and said 'soon'.

That was a year ago, and nearly eighty days of that had been spent in the hospice. The rest had been spent at home. Three months ago, when James' heart had stopped beating temporarily and he had been closer to death than ever before, it was agreed that he wouldn't be going back to school.

Ever.

Thomas lay next to him the whole night as James tossed and turned and awoke sobbing from nightmares and drifted back into feverish sleep. And he told him it didn't matter, that who needs stupid school anyway, that he, Thomas would visit him, James every day and tell him everything so it would be like he was really there.

Well, it isn't quite like that. But James supposes it's the next best thing. And oh, how grateful he is to Thomas for sticking with him, because after that awful moment when James had blacked out (how would you like it if you suddenly found out you were kissing an unconscious body?) and six months without so much as a text, he wouldn't have blamed him for moving on with his life. But Thomas didn't. As soon as James left the hospital he was ready to pick up where they left off.

And he still does visit every day, bringing food at least twice a week, and now Alex is here too, better, discharged - he doesn't even have a home nurse, how great is _that?_ \- and they're friends at school as well. It's the best, James tells himself. It's better than anything you could have hoped for.

So he spends most of the day sleeping blissfully, no sudden attacks of pain disrupting his slumber, and wakes up as if by magic exactly for four o'clock.

Meanwhile, heads down and hands in pockets, Alex and Thomas are skulking along the sidewalk to James' house. They aren't looking at each other. "You're not even that good a drummer," Thomas mutters.

"Better than your sister, though, aren't I?" Alex smirks.

"You are so ill-bred," the other boy hisses, walking a little faster. Alex keeps pace with him, but it can't last for long. "At least Jane doesn't talk like a sailor."

Alex actually looks hurt at that. "I don't fucking talk like a sailor," he protests, and Thomas rolls his eyes.

"Case in point."

"Exception that proves the rule, I think you'll find. That was a _precision_ F-bomb."

"Oh, wow, what a pun. I am in awe." Thomas swings his violin case aggressively to the left. "Now go walk over there so I don't have to listen to your constant talking, my _God_."

"No way. You go walk over there. This is my side. The right side. Because I'm always right."

"Your jokes are getting less funny by the minute," Thomas sing-songs.

"Wasn't a joke."

"Sure sounded like -"

They both look up at the sound of a bell to see George Eacker cycling along, books and flute case in his basket. "Aw, look, it's Tom and Jerry!" he calls. "What's up, Tom?"

Thomas doesn't answer, simply shaking his head and continuing to walk.

"Off to your _boyfriend's_ house, huh? Gonna have a threesome with the new kid?"

Alex and Thomas simultaneously flip him the bird. As he passes them and streaks ahead, by some sort of silent mutual agreement, Alex crosses over to the other side of the road. They continue walking like that until they reach the Madisons' front door. There Alex crosses again and they share a look.

"Alright, Hamiltoad?"

"Alright, Jaffacake."

And in they go, smiling at Mrs. Madison as she opens the door for them. Maybe this won't be too hard after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are they friends now? Well, er, no. But at least we're getting SOMEWHERE.
> 
> PS. 1 comment = one meal for my starving children


	5. My 'Good Pal', Alexander Hamilton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if I have portrayed Bet Jefferson's mental handicap insensitively or incorrectly in this chapter. I have zero source material and Wikipedia is very vague. So I've had to go off my own rather poor experiences. 
> 
> Warning: TJeffs's sisters. They are a mighty force and I fear for what may happen if they team up with Angelica, Eliza and Peggy...

Saturday arrives, and James' head is definitely improving. He hasn't needed codeine for two whole days, let alone morphine. His mom makes him a celebratory cake (she does this for the smallest of victories) and he eats a few bites. She will send the rest to Ambrose, who's studying at a college close enough to home so that he can return at short notice and receive regular food through the post but far enough away that he's not expected to come home for weekends. James thinks that's a clever idea. Still, it's not like he's ever going to get to implement it himself, as it is customary to graduate at the age of twenty-one, which is one more year than James has on God's green Earth.

 _No,_ says Thomas in his head, sternly. _Those doctors were talking shit and you know it._

 _Hey, that rhymes,_ says James to the Thomas in his head to avoid discussing the subject.

But he can't put off discussing it with the real Thomas for much longer.

After that, a day of internal conflict, sleep and occasional cake breaks, comes Sunday. Now, James loves Sundays because they include the customary visit from as many Jefferson siblings as can be coerced into coming by Thomas, which is usually all of them except the baby, Randolph. Predictably enough, Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson don't want any chance of James infecting their tiny, premature youngest child. James can understand that. He was a tiny, premature youngest child himself once, you know. So Thomas' parents stay in the living room downstairs with James' parents and coo over the baby and make polite conversation while the six sisters and Thomas scoot upstairs to James' bedroom and talk. These conversations are always... different, to say the least, and the Jefferson girls are so loud and just _there_ that it makes James panic so he has to remember to turn down his opioids, which make him paranoid and twitchy although they do wonders for his sleep schedule, and take calming pills beforehand. But he doesn't mind that. Frequent chopping and changing of medicines is pretty much in the description when your symptoms are as many and varied as James' are.

He's taken to putting on fresh pyjamas Sunday mornings, usually the yellow stripy ones that he would never otherwise wear, just so he doesn't feel as out of place beside the Jeffersons, who are as brightly coloured and as proud as peacocks in their church outfits: pink and orange and red dresses, like fire, and eccentric hats and big flashy gold crucifixes. Not that they're ever more subdued in their clothing during the week. Thomas is a fine example. James doesn't know anyone else who frequently wears waistcoats to school. Then again, he doesn't really know anyone else who goes to their school that he's seen recently apart from Alex, who, as he well remembers from the hospital, is just as scruffy and don't-carish on Sundays as on weekdays.

He wonders whether Alex will come today.

No; he's probably off to the Anglican church with the Washingtons. He checks the clock. 12:17. Their service won't be over until two, and they might want Alex to go to Sunday School after that. Whereas the Unitarian church which the Jeffersons attend finishes its service at twelve which means they should be arriving right... about... now.

Ah. There they are. Four loud teenagers, three excitable children and one screaming baby as well as Peter and Jane Jefferson who ooze class so ostensibly they might as well be royalty. Scratch that, they are royalty. Virginia royalty, which, according to Thomas anyway, is the only kind worth discussing. Not that James' family is poverty-stricken, but all those medical bills don't do wonders for the finances, and they're not such an old family, so compared to them the Jeffersons might as well be royalty. 

Hence the flashy clothes, hence the fact that James also needs to put on his shaded glasses in preparation for the parade to come.

Ah - footsteps. Many foosteps.

Here they come.

The door creaks open almost silently, and then Marty puts her dark, freckled face through and says, "Boo!"

James pretends to jump, humouring her, and she giggles delightedly as if she didn't know that she and her siblings can be heard probably from the next state over. She tiptoes in, and after her comes the eldest, Jenny, in a maroon dress that looks positively drab until she takes her scarf off and reveals its spangles and plunging neckline; appropriately named Mary, who is the very personification of the Mom Friend in her fuschia skirt suit and pink pearls; Anna, with the doll that she carries everywhere; Lucy, who can barely walk in her very first pair of high heels; and lastly Thomas with Bet, who is smiling at the wall over James' head, seemingly at some private joke. All of them are impossibly tall, impossibly pretty and have impossibly good hair. (Especially his Tom, he thinks fondly. Wait, that sounded weird. Did that sound weird?) They surround James' bed and force a Tupperware box of collard greens and ham upon him.

"Sally made them last night," says Mary indignantly when he at first refuses. "As a gift. A personal gift to you."

Sally is the Jefferson's long-suffering maid who probably has more than enough to do without preparing vegetables for a boy she has never met, so James is pretty sure this is a lie.

"Actually, they're leftovers from our supper," says Marty with another broad grin, confirming his suspicions.

"They were delicious, though," promises Jenny, and Anna and Lucy nod and chorus "Delicious" in some kind of Gregorian plainchant harmony. Did James mention they're all musicians? It gives him a headache just thinking about it, but Thomas doesn't notice his discomfort as the latter is too busy trying to stop Bet putting things in her mouth.

He opens the Tupperware and spears a cube of ham with the silver fork provided to him from Mary's seemingly bottomless purse. Bet wrinkles her nose. "He's going to be sick again," she proclaims to the ceiling. "Going to be sick in the greens."

"Sshh, Betty," says Thomas in a way that makes it very plain he's trying not to be irritable but failing.

" _You're_ sick all the time, anyway," retaliates Anna, who is by now curled up next to James on the bed. She likes him, has always liked him. Despite their age gap they can relate to each other. And Anna defends him against her sisters in a way that Thomas can't - she is one of them, he is an outsider, a Tom amongst queens. Hey, that's quite funny, a Tom amongst...

James can't help but snort at his own joke and Thomas' head shoots up. "Are you alright? No, Elizabeth Sarah, put it down!"

There it is, the only reason why James doesn't like these visits as much as he should. Thomas' attention is not on him, it is on Bet, or Lucy, or whichever sister has just hurt themselves or broken something valuable or cursed or whatever. But that's perfectly natural, and James is just being greedy. He has Thomas to himself on eighty percent of his visits, so why should he demand the other twenty? Besides. He really does enjoy the company of the Jefferson girls. And his pills help make everything much more relaxed, and dare he say, funny.

"Eat the greens, Madison, they're good for you."

"Ow! That red light just flashed! Are you going to die?!"

"My dress is getting all rumpled, it's my best one as well, from France -"

"J-a-m-e-s, I'm cold. Would I catch a germ if I stole your blanket?"

"Bet, we don't chew on our hands -"

"Hamilton?"

James has been veering between helpless, drug-induced laughter and fits of coughing throughout this when he abruptly stops. The entire Jefferson brood stops, actually, and turns as one to face the intruder in their midst.

Alex is there, leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. "I see you've invited the whole orchestra," he says casually.

"Hamilton," repeats Jenny in the same conversational tone. "You bastard, you stole my percussion gig." The drums are a good instrument for her, James thinks - they fit her personality, fit her steady, rhythmic way of talking. She never raises her voice, which is a blessing. Even with his good record over the last couple of days, even jacked up on a cocktail of drugs, he doesn't think he can handle shouting.

"A lady doesn't swear," says Mary sharply.

Bet has returned to her vacant smile. "I don't like this one. He's going to be sick too, all over the greens, yes."

"Who is it, James?" whispers Anna in his ear.

James clears his throat. "Um, this is Alexander Hamilton, a friend of mine from New York. Hamilton, these are the Jefferson sisters."

"I hadn't noticed," Alex rolled his eyes and grinned. "It's not like they all look exactly like him or anything. Nice to meet you, ladies."

They just stare at him as his smile falters and then fades. Eventually Lucy breaks the silence. "Tommy, isn't this the guy you can't stand who keeps whooping your butt in debates?"

Snickers from the sisters. James looks confusedly at Thomas and then back at Alex. He hadn't known they debated each other. They certainly didn't hate each other, even if they were acting a little awkward right now. Did they?

"No," says Thomas very calmly, although he is blushing just the tiniest bit and his accent has got broader, closer to his parents' than James'. "That's a different fellow. This is my good pal Alexander Hamilton. And if you keep runnin' your mouth off, Luce, it ain't goin' to be my butt that's goin' to get whooped, hear?"

"Ooh," says Lucy insolently. "Yes, _sir_."

Jenny has turned as red as her dress. "He - he -"

"Yeah, I know he stole your drums. I never said he wasn't an idiot. Can't we go, Moll?"

Mary looks from Alex to James to Thomas and back to Alex again, noting the obvious tension, and with a shrug answers "Sure. Come on, kids, let's leave them alone."

The girls obey their sister without any of the backchat with which Lucy answered Thomas half a minute ago. When they've all gone out in silence, even Anna, who usually makes it a point to whine about having to go and give James a hug before she exits, Thomas makes to leave too.

"Tom, where are you -" James begins, but his friend cuts him off.

"It's alright. You talk with Alex. You'll want to catch up without me snooping on you all the time." And he shuts the door as carefully and walks down the stairs as deliberately as always... but James could swear he heard a note of bitterness in Thomas' voice.

No.

It couldn't be.

Could it?

Thomas was _jealous?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry - this seems to have turned into a romcom entirely without my consent. Stay tuned for more angst next chapter! 
> 
> PS. Yes, in this AU Anna and Randolph are not twins and James only has two brothers instead of the ten siblings he actually had. No one really cares about the Jefferson and Madison kids anyway. Do they?
> 
> PPS. Each comment is but a drop in the ocean. Comment anyway if you believe even the tiniest drop can go on to do great things.


	6. That - that - Hamilton -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: James has a seizure.
> 
> This chapter has JeffMads angst and fluff in equal measures, but no Hamilton. Where is he???? Find out next time ;)

James can't wait for Thomas to arrive, especially as Alex has already told him he won't be able to visit on Mondays. Model United Nations meets on Mondays and Thomas always loves regaling him with stories of the debate. Juniors are all European nations, and Tom portrays the delegate from France, of course. Aaron Burr is Switzerland (which perfectly describes his personality, really. He hates expressing any more than the most neutral of views, and is only even in the club for something public speech-related to put on his college applications). Hercules Mulligan is Ireland, John Laurens is...

John is...

James lets out a hollow groan and presses his fingers to his temples. Whether because of stress or a factor outside of his control, his headaches have returned with a vengeance. And he can't seem to focus on anything. He can't eat, can't get to sleep, can't draw or write - it's too dark for either of those things anyway, this is a blackout curtain day - and he can't still his mind long enough to run any of his many conflicting thoughts to their natural conclusion.

He takes a sip of water and promptly gags, but "those are the rules, Jemmy," as his mother told him. "Ten millilitres every ten minutes or I put you on the drip again." He wishes all of a sudden that he hadn't asked Nurse Lewis to take him off it in the first place. It was a lot easier not having to worry about fluids. But he had just wanted that tiny bit of independence, of control over himself, and he still wants that. He really does.

Another sip. Another wave of nausea. Another pang from his head. He should try to breath it out but he doesn't want to risk a coughing fit - every time he coughs with a headache it feels like a jackhammer is being knocked into the back of his skull.

Where is Thomas? It's three-thirty already. Well, sometimes he has dinners with important friends of his parents' and needs to go home early to help prepare their house. James went to one of those dinners once. It was a long time ago, though, and... _and, and, I, I..._

 _Oh, to hell with this,_ something says in his brain. _Just think about cats._

So he thinks about cats for the next ten minutes. They're easy thoughts that don't require any mental gymnastics at all, thus the pain lessens. James hates himself for giving up so easily, but when he hears Thomas greeting his parents downstairs he is rewarded with a rush of relief that he doesn't have to suffer through their visit. This time is precious and he ruins it too often anyway.

Thomas sidles into the room with an odd expression on his face. "Hi," he says awkwardly.

"Are you okay?" James asks, and almost laughs. It's not often he is on the asking end of that question.

"Yeah," the other boy says. "Yeah, I'm fine."

There is silence, but it's not their usual, comfortable silence. It's something new. Something palpable. You could cut the tension with a butter knife.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," Thomas says eventually, his back turned to James. He might be looking at the curtains; he might not. It's hard to see where he's actually facing in this dark. "Bet was being -"

"You don't need to apologise for Bet," James cuts in quickly. "Ever. She is how she is."

"Did you like the collard greens?"

Why is he talking so stiffly? Why won't he look at James?

"They were great. Tell me about Model UN."

"I don't go there any more."

James frowns. "What? Why? I thought you liked it!"

"I did. But Hamilton convinced Mr. King to replace me with him. I don't have a seat any more unless I wanted to be, I don't know, Kosovo -"

"What's wrong with Kosovo?"

"Don't play dumb, Madison," Thomas bites out, and James physically flinches.

"M-Madison?" he manages to say faintly.

"Well, you seem to like Hamilton calling you that. I thought I'd give it a try. Like me any better?"

James stares at his back and tries to run through his mind the reasons why Thomas could possibly be mad at him. What has he done wrong? The thought, yesterday, that his friend might be jealous of Alex now seems more and more plausible. Why would Alex do something like taking Thomas' place in Model UN, right after replacing his sister in orchestra? Yes, he's ambitious, yes, he's a better debater than Tom and (presumably) a better drummer than Jenny, but James had thought they were getting along. They had really seemed to hit it off. Perhaps Thomas was feeling betrayed. Yes, that must be it.

"If it's any consolation," he says quietly - his headache is threatening to come back, so he doesn't dare speak any louder than a whisper - "I think that was rotten of Ham, and I can try to talk to him -"

"What's the point?" says Thomas bitterly, still not turning to face James. "It doesn't change the fact that he'll still whoop my ass at everything, exactly like Lucy said. He won both solos in Choir as well, did you know that? And he got a 100 in Mr. Franklin's math exam. How does one even do that?"

"I thought you were friends," James chokes out.

Thomas abruptly swivels around at the other's tone, his eyes widening. "Jem!"

"Oh, so it's Jem now and not 'Madison'?" Everything is suddenly so clear, the stabs of realisation coming so fast and so needle-thin that they get mixed up with the pain until James can't tell which is which, and he's yelling now so that he can be heard over the roaring in his ears. "You've been lying to me the whole time, haven't you? Alexander was that guy from debate who you hated from the very start of term! And you pretended to be best pals because you felt sorry for me!"

Then

time

stops.

James views the world as if through a curved, distorted lens. Droplets from his spilled water glass suspended in thin air, Thomas' face frozen in an expression of shock and guilt. He focuses in on odd things; a green book, a teddy bear with a shirt that says 'Virginia State', a pink doll's shoe that Lucy might have dropped. He knows what is about to happen but, quite honestly, he doesn't care.

The cease of time to pass was gradual and painful, but when all James' muscles relax and his lead-heavy eyelids shut it is as quick and easy as falling asleep.

_Except this time he's not quite asleep._

* * *

Thomas looks down at James, who is shaking and twitching and kicking at his sheets, and sighs. He's not worried - he's seen too many of these seizures to be anxious. They always resolve themselves within a few minutes, and he knows what to do. He sits down. He props two spare pillows up against the sharp sides of the bedside tables where James could hit hit his arms. And he starts talking.

"I'm sorry, Jem. I shouldn't have lied to you. Lord, I feel like such an idiot... but I didn't know what else to do, I didn't know what else to say. You're the most important person in the world to me, and the thought of upsetting you just because I hated that - that - Hamilton - well, I couldn't stand it. I may have gone too far. I definitely went too far. I could tolerate him on a good day, but we're definitely not what you'd call friends, and it was a mistake to pretend we were. I regret it so much. And I know you can't hear me and I'm going to have to say that part all over again when you wake up, but Jem, I feel so awful I couldn't help it. What if I've made you worse? What if you have to go to the hospital just because I screwed up so badly and stressed you out so much that -"

The seizures have stopped. James is just lying there, out cold, one arm flung up and one clutching the pillow. Thomas sighs again, in relief this time, and, sitting up, rolls the unconscious boy into the recovery position, arranging his knees and arms with practised hands, careful with the tubes coming out of his arm but all the time watching to see that he hasn't swallowed his own tongue. Some people say he's thoughtless (well, 'some people' - it's that bastard Hamilton again, of course) and, fair enough, probably he is. But he's always prided himself on the fact that his thoughtlessness has never extended to James, never hurt him like it's hurt most people in Thomas' life to some extent. Until now.

Thomas bends over James' head, ostensibly checking his breathing is regular, and whispers, as he does nearly every time this happens, "I love you."

Then he sits back down to wait for his friend to wake up so that he can make his apology once again. What he doesn't expect is for James to half-open his eyes and murmur "I love you too."

Thomas feels a chill go through him, which he abruptly squashes. James is confused. He often is after a fit. No big deal. Right?

As the boy's eyes fully open and he rolls over to look at Thomas, the latter gives him a rueful grin and prepares to apologise once again, but before he can get past "I'm sor -" James interrupts him.

"No need. I was conscious through your last speech."

"You were what," says Thomas, the aforementioned grin sliding off his face like treacle.

"I forgive you, Tom, and I'm sorry for shouting. And I promise I'll be fine. I'm just glad everything's straightened out."

"Yeah?" Thomas mutters, in some embarrassment. James had been conscious? "I thought you were blacked out, I mean, I would have never said that if..."

"I don't want to push you into anything you're not comfortable with," James says with a tiny smile. "But I meant what _I_ said."

Another shiver runs down Thomas' spine, but instead of drawing back, this time he leans forward and reaches out his hand. James reaches out too. His grip is slacker than usual, his hand oddly small in Thomas', but despite that it feels right. And the way James draws him in to kiss his cheek feels even righter.

"You know my parents probably heard every bit of that through the monitor," he whispers.

Thomas contemplates caring, but as this statement is followed by another kiss, this time to his earlobe, he realises he really doesn't.

Not one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to anyone from Kosovo. It's a wonderful country. 
> 
> PS. 1 comment = one cup of tea for a heartbroken King George III


	7. Alexander

It's easy to agree on times. Thomas will come at four o'clock, which is easier for him anyway as it gives him time to get home, sort some stuff out, get a start on his homework and (on certain days at least) actually assist poor Sally in the making of the macaroni and cheese. Alex can come at three as usual, if he wants to, of course. James is pretty sure he won't be coming every day. Not like Thomas. Alex has always been out there, wanting to do everything, see everything, talk to everyone. He'll probably be hanging out with his friends most afternoons. Which is why James is, although disappointed, not surprised _per se_ when Alex doesn't turn up at three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, just like the previous day.

But Thomas does. That's the surprising part.

James is lying on his front, face planted into a pillow, trying to stave off some particularly ugly stomach cramps with the assistance of a fluffy hot water bottle. It isn't working. He has been sick multiple times already and his mother, while always supportive and willing to give back rubs, is clearly getting tired from running up and down the stairs. She's also slightly offended because he isn't even tempted by her homemade peach iced tea even though the day is hot. It's water for him. Ten millilitres every ten minutes. Even though he's pretty sure it's exacerbating his stomach cramps.

"What does that mean?" asks a familiar voice curiously, and James almost jumps, settling instead for rolling over to face Thomas. The latter has come into the room almost silently, the big red bowl covered with foil under his arm, in a long-sleeved purple dress shirt and sweating uncomfortably - but he wouldn't dream of wearing a t-shirt to school. Of course. This is Tom Jefferson we're talking about here. James doesn't think he's worn a t-shirt in his life.

"I didn't say anything," James tells him with a fond smile.

"You did. You said 'this is exacerbating my cramps'. What is exacerbating, please explain." Thomas actually looks like he wants to know, so James gives in and explains.

"Making them worse." His stomach may ache, but his head doesn't, and he is momentarily thankful that it is clear enough for him to talk and think in as complicated a way as he chooses without making his pain ten times worse.

"Well, ain't that a fun word of the day. I'm going to use that. In debate. With - well, in debate." The taller boy gives James an impish grin and sits down, legs akimbo. "Mac and cheese, Your Highness?"

James would normally laugh, but today his stomach flips over at the very words (plus the faint smell that emanates as Thomas begins peeling the foil off the top without having waited for an answer) and he retches horribly into the bucket by his bed one more time. Hopefully it's the last, as he does actually feel a little better now, although nothing came up. Thank goodness. He was sick on Thomas once and felt awful for weeks afterwards because he was wearing a velvet jacket - freaking _velvet_ , although, to be fair, he had been trying to chat up a boy called Monroe, which apparently hadn't gone well for either concerned - and though Thomas laughed it off and insisted his parents didn't have to pay for a new jacket, James was still excruciatingly embarrassed and couldn't stop apologising.

"I guess not," Thomas says quickly, and although his attention seems to be devoted to re-foiling the bowl, James sees his eyes flick over to the (blessedly empty) bucket and feels the familiar wave of embarrassment crash over him. He's disgusting. Why would Thomas ever want to kiss him? He's perfect, and James is just... ugh. Suddenly panicked, he turns back over onto his front and tries to stifle his gasping breaths in the pillow. But Thomas' hand is on his back and Thomas is asking "Do you feel really bad? Should I get your parents? Do you need to be sick? I can hold the bucket -" but not in the mile-a-minute way anyone else (read: Alex, Lafayette, John Laurens, Hercules, even his own mother) might ask those things - no, Thomas' voice is as slow and calm and smooth as always and James can hardly stand it.

"I don't feel sick, I promise, it's better than it was," he says into the pillow just to reassure Thomas, because that's the only person he needs to reassure. Definitely.

"Say that again to my face, I dare you," Thomas teases him, and James falls for it because a small part of him knows he is wanted to, turns his face forty-five degrees and speaks a little louder.

"I don't feel sick any -"

Before he can finish Thomas' lips are on his and he gives a little squeak of surprise because _that's the first time they've kissed on the lips since before the hospital_. When the other boy pulls away he is stammering, unable to form a cohesive sentence: "Why did you - I could have - and my breath - and you're -" And then he notices the time. "Tom, not that that wasn't wonderful, but it's quarter past three and I thought you were going to come at four."

"I don't need to avoid Hamilton, though," Thomas explains with glee. "He's off school, sick."

"What?!"

At James' horrified exclamation he looks abashed. "I mean. Well, you know. Mr. Adams told us, because Mr. Washington wasn't there either, because he's the guy's adopted father or whatever."

"Did he say what was wrong? Is it his lungs? Has he had to go back to the hospital?" James is working himself up again, the calm hand on his own just barely managing to ground him again.

"I'm sure it's nothing major, but... I guess... I could call him to make sure?"

"Would you?" James' smile is so relieved as to be almost dazzling, and Thomas can't help but smile back as he takes out his cellphone. "His number is, uh, let's see, 440-"

"I know," cuts in Thomas, navigating to his contacts.

"You have his number?"

"Hmm?" Thomas looks up to see his friend... although maybe friend isn't quite the right word any more... looking startled. "Yeah. He got mine from Gilbert, and regularly uses it to hurl abuse at me via text."

James rolls his eyes. "Don't pretend you don't share in the abuse-hurling."

"You're darn right I do. Except," and here the boy frowns slightly, pushing his curls back with one hand, "he hasn't been doing too much hurling recently. Let's see. He hasn't texted me since Monday morning, to say, and I quote, 'Gmorning, asshat'. And he wasn't in school Monday either."

All James' alarm bells are ringing. Alex is passionate about learning; he'd never miss a day of school if he could help it, and one of his favourite themes to expound upon in the hospital was wanting to go back. Plus, that text is oddly short. Alex is one of the most verbose people he knows, and also unlikely to use such an uncreative insult as 'asshat'. Something is very wrong. "Tom, call him right now."

Thomas gives a mock-salute with the phone. "Yessir, will do."

But the other boy's face is deadly serious, and Thomas can't help but feel a little unnerved. Sure, Hamilton's a jerk of the first water, but he's still James' friend. If something bad has really happened to him then you can bet James won't take it well. Once, back in the good old days when Thomas had only the vaguest idea who Hamilton was, the guy had relapsed or something and James had cried for days, a situation which had culminated in the mother of all seizures. So, yeah. Not good. Thomas listens to the phone ring, and considers in a masochistic sort of way what might happen if Hamilton died.

"Hello, this is the phone of A. Hamilton (can you believe I got a phone, no, I can't either, but I'm getting off topic) and I can't answer your call right now, oh Jeez I dropped my piece of paper, see, I had a piece of paper where I wrote down what I had to say - what? Oh, yeah. Pleaseleaveamessageafterthetonethanksbye."

Thomas rolls his eyes at the awkward, rambling, long message and shields his phone's speaker as the tone sounds so it won't set James' head off. He kind of wishes he had a piece of paper of his own. Improvisation's never been his strong suit. "Alexander, it's Thomas," he starts, and then stops. James makes little grabbing motions at the phone, so the other hands it over gratefully.

"James here. I heard you haven't been coming in to school, so you'd better call me as soon as you get this so I know you're alright, understand? If I don't hear from you by the same time tomorrow I'm going to call the hospital and you don't want to wish a long and involved chat with Valerie behind the desk on me, Ham. See you."

He hangs up, careful not to stare at the bright screen for reasons that should be obvious, and hands the phone back to Thomas, who is realising with slight disgust that in his confusion and (alas, he admits it) worry he had called Alex by his first name. What a blight on the record of their carefully preserved enmity. Still, it's better than saying 'Hamiltoad', which he imagines would result in an passionately wounded stare from James and even more of an uncomfortable silence. Also, if Alex really is ill - or worse than normal, anyway - he'd just feel guilty later. Best to keep his cards close to his chest and play it safe, as Burr would say.

"Thank you," James says in a small voice. "It means a lot to me that you would do that even though you don't like him."

"I don't _not like him_ ," Thomas protests.

There is a beat. James has his head cocked to the side, sitting a little up now.

"Okay, that's a lie. Sorry. I don't like him. But you know, he's your friend, and I like you."

James' look softens from accusing to soppy. "I like you too, Tom," he coos. "An awful lot."

There is loud spluttering from downstairs. James' mom is presumably ironing in the living room where the monitor's speaker is, and has heard this exchange. She's never been one for romanticism, even less than his dad, so it makes sense she would be a little disgusted. But she adores Thomas, so she hasn't said anything to her son yet.

"Is that your ma?" Thomas asks, groaning, but talking too quietly (he hopes) to be heard by the monitor. "Is she okay with me... you know?"

James looks at his wonderful, handsome, caring, loving friend - more than friend - and wonders how could anyone not be okay with him. James' parents have never had an issue with him being gay. After all, Ambrose is pansexual and they didn't even know what that was until he and his partner explained it. Homosexuality is familiar territory, and while it's still not quite the norm to be as open-minded as his parents are, Thomas claims the situation's getting better and better. Even Thomas' own parents, who have a Bible in every room of their house and emblems of the Sacred Heart on every wall, have eventually come to wholly accept their son's sexuality.

"Of course she is," he promises. "She's better than okay. And Dad -"

Before he can say that his father's been pleading with him for months to get a girlfriend, a boyfriend, anything, the _before it's too late_ unspoken but somehow all too audible, Thomas' phone rings. He and James share a look and he picks it up.

"Hamilton?"

"This is George Washington, Thomas. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK LADS A CLIFFHANGER
> 
> PS. Alex may or may not have been kidnapped by evil flower fairies. Comments help to pay his ransom.


	8. That Poor Fellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: medical emergencies

"It's George Washington, Thomas. I'm afraid I've got some bad news."

James has gone pale, eyes wide and vulnerable, silently begging Thomas to let him in on the conversation. So, trying to be tactful, the latter says, "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Washington. Do you mind if I put you on speaker so James can listen? It's just us, and he's really worried about Hamilton. Alexander."

"Of course, son." As Thomas presses the small speaker icon, he notices with a sinking feeling that Washington's voice isn't as strong, as commanding in its tone as usual. James seems to have noticed that too. He's turned even paler. Gripping Thomas' hand as if his life depends on it (okay, so maybe that's a bad analogy given the circumstances, but that's what it feels like).

"Alex... fell ill on Sunday evening. Collapsed. He was lucid and able to do everything except walk right up to Monday morning, at which point he began to declined and by noon had slipped into a coma. The cause would seem to be sudden lung failure."

James lets out the cry that he's been holding in, and Thomas is slack-jawed with shock, unable to speak for a moment, unable to think. By the time he's recovered his senses, though, and made a choked sort of apology into the phone, the emotion that threatens to consume him isn't surprise, or pity, or sorrow. It's anger. Rage, one might almost call it. How dare that selfish idiot go into a coma when he knew how much James cared about him? If it had been anyone else, in any other circumstances that had upset his Jem in that way there would have been all-out war. As it was, all he could do was clench his hand so tightly around the phone that its case began to cut painfully into his palm, and silently fume. Damn his conscience to the depths of hell. It was his conscience, after all, that stopped him from teasing Hamilton about his lack of family during debates, that told him not to touch the kid's nasal tube and oxygen tank when they were fighting. And it was his conscience now that prevented him throwing his phone onto the floor and stamping on it. That, and the fact that he wasn't the human personification of uncontrolled irrationality like _some_ people.

"Where is he?" asks James in a voice that is simultaneously horrified and utterly broken.

Thomas jumps and begins to repeat the question, but Washington has heard him. "In intensive care. Bristol Hospital."

"Bristol." James is numb. He can't feel his fingers. "That's hundreds of miles away. Why does he have to be so far away?"

Washington sighs. "I don't know, son. If you two want to visit him I could arrange something, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid there wouldn't be much point."

"Thank you for telling us that, sir," Thomas replies, speaking louder than is perhaps needed for his teacher to hear him, but somehow he feels it is necessary. "I'll - we'll - goodbye, Mr. Washington." But just before he taps the screen to hang up again he adds a final "I'm sorry." It won't do anything. Hell, he's not even sure what he wants it to do. It takes a few seconds before Thomas realises; he really is sorry, angry perhaps, but still sorry. Alex wasn't (isn't) really that awful. He considers saying something to that effect, but somehow doesn't think that it would help the situation, although James doesn't look like he's listening to a word Thomas says right now.

He's just sitting there, hands stretched out in supplication to an invisible deity.

Is he going to have a seizure again? Thomas reaches out for a pillow to cushion James' head and brushes his shoulder, and then he is being clawed at and dragged onto the bed and sobbed into. He wishes he wasn't thinking of this, but that's just such a James way of reacting to the situation. He seems so emotionless to people who don't know him. Show him the least bit of affection, though, and all those feelings come pouring out. Thomas sits there and lets himself be clutched like he is some sort of stuffed animal of days gone by, and all the while his heart is breaking because he can't do anything like he could when James got dumped that one time (i.e. utilise the full power of his sisters in the greatest revenge scheme ever seen by Port Conway Junior High) - but he's already been over this, it would be completely morally reprehensible and also fairly pointless using either brains or brawn against Alex.

After all, the poor fellow's in a coma.

In a _coma_.

Thomas sniffs before he can help himself and then looks around guiltily, but James is too deep into his own misery to notice. No, now's not the time to get emotional. The absolute first thing to do is make sure James doesn't hurt himself in any way, which probably involves letting him cry himself to sleep. Then he has to take himself home, revise for his chemistry pop quiz, do the washing-up for Sally and generally be an Excellent Son so that his parents will be more amenable to the idea of he and James going to Bristol, despite the fact that it is (if he remembers correctly) exactly 365 miles away.

The thought of _not_ going to visit his relatively new worst enemy in the intensive care ward of a hospital that he has no idea how to get to does not even enter his mind.

James has his head on Thomas' shoulder, and tears are leaking onto his shirt. "But his prognosis was good, Tom," he says bleakly.

"I know," says Thomas. Empty words again. It's not often he feels his words are inadequate, but today that's the kindest way of describing them.

The curtains glow red as the two boys sit together, quiet now. James' mother comes up to see what has happened, peeks in, asks if they need anything and as soon as they mutely shake their heads goes out again. James thinks somehow that she might have gone to get ice-cream. The thought doesn't sicken him quite as much as it would have an hour ago, for which he is thankful.

He is right. It is the lemon kind, sharp and smooth rather than sweet and textured, and Thomas and he pass the spoon back and forth as he talks to his mother, hesitantly. Slowly. Trying not to burst into tears once more. Alex isn't dead, he reminds himself, not yet, not nearly. He has woken up from a coma before; he could do again. And what's more, he has survived almost every disaster it is possible to inflict upon someone, everything from tuberculosis to a freaking hurricane.

With that in mind, his voice as he tells his mother what has happened is only a little shaky. She screams, muffled behind a hand, and Thomas jumps up in alarm; but he has underestimated Nelly Madison. Her strength is a constant source of amazement to both James' dad and the two boys. So different from Thomas' own mother, who will probably weep inconsolably for hours despite not having the faintest idea who Alexander Hamilton actually is. She's just that sort of person. Mrs. Madison, though, within ten seconds of her original reaction, is planning the visit to Bristol. Her hazel eyes are full of determination. It will be this weekend, she says, barring emergencies.

"This weekend?" Thomas splutters around a mouth full of ice-cream.

James nods at him almost timidly. "That's the earliest Dad can get off, isn't it, Mama?"

Thomas thinks of all the favours he is going to have to collect in order to be allowed on a five-hour drive to a hospital on the other side of the God-damned state _this weekend_.

"Tom... you know you don't have to come if you don't want to. I know you aren't really getting along with Alex at the moment." Present tense. James is talking about Alex in the present tense.

"And hospitals can be stressing, especially when a loved one is there," Mrs. Madison says gently.

"Thank you for your concern, ma'am," rolls off Thomas' tongue in just the way it has for years, polite, cold, courteous but somehow not conducive to approachability. He hesitates, though, over what he's going to say next, and it ends up coming out like: "But I want - I have to - you see, I didn't like him, but I didn't hate him either and... For Jemmy. James. I want to stay with him."

Mrs. Madison probably thinks he's a huge mess (as if she hasn't already gathered that) but she nods anyway, and so does James. As if they understand. God, who knows? Maybe they do.

"I'll call your parents, get the spare room ready. Last time you slept in our Jem's bed you didn't sleep a wink."

Both James and Thomas protest at this, but for utterly different reasons. Thomas is aghast. "I can't possibly intrude. I mean, Alexander was," fucking hell, Jefferson, what's wrong with you, "IS James' friend, a friend of the family, and I've only known him for -"

James' hand is on his all of a sudden, gently shushing the taller boy, as if he is the one who needs comfort. He's not, though. Really. He's not.

He's _not_.

"Situations like this can be so emotionally draining," Mrs. Madison says quietly. "You need rest as much as Jem does, no matter how much you try to pretend for both of your sakes that you don't. I promise your parents will be fine with you staying the night once I explain. We all know I'm not about to let you walk home right now, and they wouldn't want me to. As for going to Bristol with us, well, that's up to you and them to decide. But right now you don't need to worry about that."

Thomas feels like he's never not been worried in his life, and to tell him not to worry now of all times is like telling a kitten to herd sheep. But somehow his head nods of its own accord, and his traitorous body gets up off the bed and makes its way into the spare bedroom, where he passes out within minutes.

His last thoughts before a night of dreamless sleep, are, in this order: one, that he's definitely only upset for James' sake; two, that number one is a lie, that he's lying to himself if he chooses to believe he isn't genuinely scared for Alex; three, that his sisters are going to hate him; and four, that the tentative, teary smile on James' face when he managed to get out that he wanted to visit the hospital with them is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

That is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least he's not dead, eh? No, but can I really just apologise for this totally unjustifiable sadness. I am a terrible person. 
> 
> PS. Leaving a comment will shift your alignment 3 points towards good. :)


	9. Interlude (ft. Marty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: James has a blackout (petit mal) seizure. Also a smol amount of swearing from the very same smol bean - how shocking!

When James wakes up the next morning he has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from shouting in agony. Instead of coming on gradually, starting from one particular focal point and spreading throughout his body before easing off again after ten minutes or so, the pain is everywhere, a steady, continuous ache. What is happening? Is this another symptom? Is he able to move? He bites down on his hand to distract himself and tries wiggling a toe. It works. He isn't paralysed, thank God.

He experimentally and torturously twitches what feels like every muscle in his body before he realises that the pain isn't physical. It's one of _those_ moments, he thinks bitterly. Because he's an emotionally inept _child_ that can't differentiate between when he has a life-threatening symptom and when he's feeling sad.

The knowledge that this is all in his head doesn't make it any better. Quite the reverse. In fact, as he begins his usual morning routine of piecing together memories from the previous day in spite of his sore head, everything intensifies and for a moment he really believes he's going to fall unconscious.

Alex. Ill. Relapsed. Coma. Mr. Washington. Tom.

Tom.

This time he isn't quick enough to stifle the raw cry that escapes him. Why did you do that Madison you're going to wake everyone up you need morphine but it'll make you sick have to go to Bristol at the weekend for Alex but can't it hurts too much and

"I'm sorry, Tom," he finds himself saying, sitting upright in his bed with different pyjamas on and a cup of coffee on the bedside table by his dusty copy of Paine's _Common Sense_.

"No problem," Thomas says comfortably. "That one was definitely a real blackout, then?"

"Definitely." James considers drinking some coffee but has even less appetite today than usual. "I'm honestly surprised one didn't happen l-last night." His voice wobbles and the taller boy reaches for his arm, takes it gently.

"I'm glad it didn't."

James makes a noise somewhere between agreement and apathy. He doesn't mind about the seizures. Much. It's a lot better when he's unconscious during them, as he usually is, because it's a horrific feeling having absolutely no control over his body. 'Blackouts', though, often provide welcome relief when the pain gets too much, whether mental or physical. And after them, like now, he actually feels fairly normal, except still with some residual embarrassment; he often acts oddly during seizures and despite the fact that he would trust Thomas with his life, it's still mortifying to know that he's seen James like... that.

"Listen, Jem," Thomas begins - he's still in his (now crumpled) clothes from yesterday. James' mom probably tried to lend him an old outfit of James', but the height difference between the two has always been starkly apparent and there's no way Thomas would fit shirts that were too small for James two years ago. "I really wish I didn't, but I've got to get to school."

"No, I understand completely." James tries to smile.

"Will you be alright?"

"Of course." _No, how could I ever be alright? I was too busy worrying about my own shitty little life to realise that Alexander was deteriorating. He could have done so much, he was always the cleverer one, the one that wrote like he was running out of time, the one that the nurses used to say would change the world. I was just another terminal patient. His disease was flashy, exciting, newsworthy, but ultimately temporary. He wasn't supposed to relapse! He was supposed to get_ better!

"I've texted Marty to come around and see you. You know the middle schoolers are allowed out at lunchtimes. Would you like that?"

Thomas looks really concerned, so James turns his smile up a notch. "Yes. Please. If she's free."

"And I'll be here at three every day," the other boy promises, fingers tapping along James' arm perhaps unwittingly.

Although he's clearly impatient to go, he shows no signs of movement. The silence between them stretches out just a second too long to be comfortable even by their standards, and then James can't stand it any longer and throws his arms around Thomas' neck. "Oh, I love you, I love you," he whispers. "Tom, don't go."

Thomas holds him and whispers something back which James can't hear, but he knows anyway that what he said was stupid. Thomas has to go. He will be back in just a few short hours, and inbetweentimes James has his mom and dad and Marty's coming and it isn't even a Sunday... that's what he tells himself, anyway, but at the same time he feels, no, he _knows_  he can't cope with this without Thomas.

Eventually the latter pulls away and drops a soft kiss on James' forehead. "Three o'clock," he says firmly. "And Marty'll be here at quarter past noon."

James gulps, nods, and drops his arms. "It's a date," he jokes feebly.

Thomas turns with an incredulously delighted smile. "It's a - what? It's a date? Yes. Yes, it's a date!" And, his sudden happiness in harsh conflict with James' simmering misery, he almost skips to the door and exits with a buoyant "Love you, Jemmy!"

James is left alone with his thoughts.

Naturally, he tries to think of anything but Alexander. Every time he remembers what's happened it's like a fresh sprinkling of salt on an open wound. Even Thomas' happiness, which would normally cheer him up more than anything else could, feels almost like a personal attack. One moment James is wondering sulkily how his Tom isn't completely devastated, and then he is pathetically grateful that he cares about Alex at all. After all, they were enemies. Deadly enemies, apparently. As soon as James was tipped off by Lucy talking about her brother getting his ass 'whooped' by Alexander, he remembered lots of other tiny details that he hadn't previously fitted together. Like how Thomas would complain at length to James about his idiotic debating partner but when they were with Alex he would avoid the whole subject of debating like the plague, probably wary of starting a fight in front of James. He couldn't help but fall in love even more with Thomas for that, despite the fact that he'd been lied to. All the boy had wanted was to avoid conflict, something which he usually courted with alacrity but knew James hated. So he had pretended to be friends with Alex. And, of course, the deception had come crashing down within a week - but Alex hadn't known that.

Alex had already gone into the coma by the time James confronted Thomas and the latter confessed.

Alex had gone into the coma weighed down with not only the stresses of a new home and a new school, but also the burden of 'having' to pretend to be best friends with a boy he hated. And sure, he might have been partly to blame for that, but James would be lying if he said Thomas wasn't a fairly antagonistic person. And after all, he repeats to himself, they were doing it for his, James' sake.

So does that mean it's James' fault?

He wants to read, but doesn't dare in case it brings on a migraine. No, wait; the machine that controls most of his intravenous drugs states that his morphine is at an extra high level. That's not surprising. Either Tom or his father (his mom doesn't like messing with the machines) must have turned it up while he was waking up from his seizure earlier that morning. They would have known what had caused it. Discounting the triggers of bright lights or some sort of adrenaline-inducing screaming match, blackouts are only caused by the worst kinds of pain. That kind of pain needs morphine to dull it. And when he's on morphine he can read in peace, thank God.

The old-fashioned style and blithely outdated proverbs of _Common Sense_ distract him not so much because books often do so, but because it is such a rarity that they are able to. Usually he has to put a book down within ten minutes of picking it up, forced to by his steadily mounting headache. Morphine is a wonderful drug, he thinks. He wishes he could take it all the time. It's even better than his mildly hallucinogenic vivid-dream cloud floating pills. James couldn't stomach floating on a cloud, not right now. He'd much rather feel relaxed and comfortable in his own bed with (oh joy) a book to stave off the thoughts of the second friend he's ever had in a coma, dead to the world, lying pale and limp on a white cot while doctors shake their heads sorrowfully and make notes on their clipboards -

Read the book, James. Read the _fucking_ book.

"Society encourages intercourse," he mutters to himself. "Government creates distinctions."

This is the point at which Alex would make a rude 'intercourse' pun...

"Hello, stranger, wotcher reading?" It's Marty. Thank goodness for Marty. She's loud and excitable and less funny than she thinks she is, and James simultaneously can't stand her and wants to spend every waking minute in her company.

"Well, if it isn't my favourite Jefferson sister," James says slowly, emphasising his words. Exaggerating them. It's the morphine - he knows if he tries to speak too fast he'll trip up and start forgetting words.

Marty gives an exaggerated gasp in her turn. "I'm'a tell Anna Scott you said that," she grins, and then, laughing loudly at her own wit, falls onto the bed. Possibly onto James' feet. He doesn't know - he can't feel them right now.

"So, I heard that you're goin' upstate with Tomsie. Are you really? No kiddin'?"

"No kidding," confirms James.

"Is it because your drum-stealin' pal's not well?"

"You could say that."

"Well, I hope he gets better soon." There's the Jefferson in Marty, the well-brought-up, polite young lady who dresses nicely and is given special classes to learn to say her 'H's. "I sure am sorry."

"Uh-huh," James says tiredly. "You know, Mart, he and Thomas... aren't the best of friends."

Marty cackles. "Oh, I like him even better now you've said that! Tomsie and Jenny need to learn that they ain't the centre of the universe. Your pal was going aways towards doin' that. I didn't bring any mac n' cheese," she adds unexpectedly, stretching out on the end of the bed. "Your mom gave me a jug of soda to bring up but I spilled it."

James suddenly snorts - he doesn't know why, but Marty being her oh-so-normal, clumsy self comforts him a lot more than his parents and even Thomas to some extent tiptoeing around him like he's a broken doll.

Of course, she is highly pleased by his reaction. This is Martha Clementine Jefferson, middle child of seven equally brilliant siblings. She lives off positive attention. "And next up," she proclaims brightly, "the juggling."

"No juggling. You need to get back to school," James says gently, pointing at the clock which reads 12:47. "I can think of at least nine people who wouldn't be happy if you got another tardy slip."

"Am I related to eight of them?"

"Good guess."

"Are you the other one?"

"Marty, get to school."

She does, but she comes the next day, too, entirely without prompting from her brother (James thinks, anyway). On Friday, Lucy even tags along to show James her collection of Pandora bracelets. Not to mention the fact that Thomas is there every afternoon, bringing a ray of metaphorical sunshine into James' very literally dark room.

It's a long three days, but thank God - thank the Jeffersons, he tells himself with the glimmer of a smile - James Madison gets through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of pleasure I get from inventing stupid middle names for minor characters is possibly unhealthy.
> 
> PS. Comments provide matches for Eliza's pyromaniac habits


	10. Alex and Tom

They're really doing this.

They're really going to Bristol.

It isn't that Thomas is unused to long journeys by any means - the Jefferson family spends a lot of time in Europe where a simple road trip can take you through three countries - but this is an entirely different set of circumstances. He isn't in his parents' minivan, wedged in the back seat between a whining Anna and a totally disinterested Jenny playing Subway Surfers on her phone. He is in the Madisons' car. Mr. Madison is driving. Mrs. Madison is simultaneously navigating and working through what looks to be income tax paperwork. And James and he are in the back seat, the former still attached to his machinery, which is in the trunk along with his wheelchair. Another thing that is different from the Jeffersons' road trips is the quiet of the car; the Madison parents don't talk much except about directions, preferring to stay in a comfortable silence, and of course there isn't any music playing. They also make very regular hourly stops to do something to the batteries of the machines by the side of the road.

The steady _beep, beep, beep_ of that one microwave-looking thing is the only sound Thomas has heard for what seems like eternity , and it's starting to annoy him quite a bit now.

Mrs. Madison suddenly turns to her son and asks a soft question. James nods tightly. Thomas gives her a reassuring smile. He is on watch; nothing will happen to his Jem while he is in this car. Satisfied, the mother turns back to her sheets of numbers again. James looks down at his hands and groans - it's difficult to hear over the noise of the engine, but Thomas picks up on it and looks sharply at the other boy. "Are you feeling sick?"

James shakes his head mutely.

"Because you really do have to tell me if you are," Thomas pursues the question.

"I'm fine, alright?"

James is suddenly, inexplicably angry. Thomas puts up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. I gotcha. Do you want a book?"

"Came off morphine," James mutters. "Yesterday. Can't read or it'll make my head worse."

Of course. His head is hurting. There aren't any curtains in this car to block out the blinding sunlight, but Thomas prides himself on his resourcefulness if nothing else - and he's well acquainted with the problem of glare on his and his sisters' many screens when they are driving. He picks up his purple duffel coat from the floor and hangs it on the roof handle over James' window. It works pretty effectively. If he does say so himself.

"Thanks," says James abruptly after a few minutes of staring straight ahead, breathing hard. "Sorry for snapping."

Thomas slides his hand over the seat in what he hopes is a casual way. "It's no problem! I _was_ being a bit of a mom friend. That's my job, though."

His hand stays outstretched, on the edge of the middle seat, for perhaps ten seconds. Just as he's thinking about withdrawing it James reaches out as well.

They hold hands until the next stop, where - after the machines are dealt with, of course - James has to use the service station's bathroom, and truthfully, so does Thomas. The queue for the disabled toilet is annoyingly long, though, so by the time he returns from the men's, James and his dad are still in the queue, wheelchair, machines and all, and are starting to look pretty annoyed.

"You can go sit in the car, buddy," Mr. Madison says with a strained sort of smile as he watches yet another seemingly able-bodied person come out of the cubicle. Thomas takes the hint, but before he follows orders he slips into a crummy little newsagent and purchases a coffee for $3 less than it would have cost in the Starbucks close by. The guy behind the counter has a nametag that reads 'Usnavi'. Thomas thinks that's a kind of dumb name, but maybe it's Spanish.

"Where're you off to, then?" this 'Usnavi' asks with a personable sort of grin.

"Bristol," Thomas answers automatically, counting out $1.69. So sue him, he likes to give the exact change. "Hospital."

"Sorry about that. Still, look on the bright side - at least you can afford it!"

This guy is starting to sound like Alexander 'At Least You Don't Have Cancer' Hamilton. Kind of similar accent, too. And they look the same. Thomas blinks at 'Usnavi' - the resemblance is striking enough to be unsettling despite the fact that the store worker has a goatee and looks at least five years older than Hamilton - and, seriously weirded out, takes his coffee and receipt and gets out of there.

He hears Usnavi calling behind him something that sounds like "Paciencia y fe!"

Huh. Thomas remembers enough from freshman Spanish to know what that means. Patience and faith. Same as their school motto: "Patientia Et Fides Custodient Nos". He's always thought that was a bit idealistic. Patience and faith wouldn't pass your tests for you or get you into college, and they sure as hell wouldn't cure any diseases.

But... maybe they could do more than he'd thought.

So, when James is helped into the car by his father, both pissed off from the queue and the former's head aching so much that he physically has to hold it upright, Thomas passes him the milky brew and takes his hand again and says gently, "Paciencia y fe."

The rest of the car journey, thanks to the coffee, Thomas' duffel coat, patience and faith, is happily uneventful.

 

* * *

 

Bristol Hospital is... enormous. James spent six months in the largest paediatric hospital in the world, and that is dwarfed in comparison to this place. There are so many buildings, for a start. It's like an entire mini-town. His dad, thank goodness, manages to navigate them to outside the intensive care unit, but not until after they pass, in this order: the maternity ward, Accident & Emergency, the ear, nose and throat ward, physiotherapy and speech therapy, the cardiovascular ward and too many more to count.

James' dad parks under the dubious shade of a scraggly sort of tree in a disabled parking space, and for the second time since they started he, his mom and Thomas get to work unloading everything. Thomas (being a gentleman) of course insists on handling the heavy metal wheelchair for James' mom, although he is slightly less deft at helping James out of his car seat and into the chair. As usual, even though the only people around are nurses clocking off the evening shift - for it is evening now, thank goodness, and the sun has gone down, _thank goodness_ \- James is ashamed. Even though he's wearing normal people clothes instead of pyjamas. Even though the nurses scattered around the carpark have probably seen ten times worse.

Thomas can sense his embarrassment and plants a kiss on his forehead as he shuts the car door behind him.

James' dad raises his eyebrows and grins but says nothing. James' mom is too busy fussing over the machines - will they run out of battery, what if the hospital don't allow them inside because they're too bulky?

"They're pretty standard, Nelly," says Mr. Madison, still beaming at his son and Thomas. "The ward will almost certainly have a place to plug them in. Tom, can you bring the cables?"

Thomas picks up an armful of cables very slowly, seeming like he's trying not to look at anyone. James himself is even more mortified by his father's reaction, and sinks into his wheelchair slowly, his head pounding almost as much as his heart. Because what are they going to find in there? Will Alex be responsive, or just a shell of his former self? He knows Mr. and Mrs. Washington are already there. He'll be on life support. And they're his guardians - if he continues to decline for much longer they'll have to make the decision. James has seen too many people have to make that decision. And he bets it's not going to be any easier just because Alex isn't their son by birth.

They have to keep him alive. They have to.

Stay alive, Alex.

"Can't you walk faster?" he asks his father in a pitiful sort of voice. The latter immediately stops smiling and clears his throat, speeding up.

"Er, of course, son. Are you managing, Nell?"

James' mom rolls her eyes, pushing the standard-issue white trolley with the machines on it with ease. "I'm dandy, Jim, but it's not me y'all need to worry about," she chides him.

James twists around in his seat to see Thomas, piled with cables, having to take longer and longer strides to keep up. He's red in the face and biting his lip as if to keep from panting, which is odd - Thomas is one of the fittest people James knows. Then he realizes. Thomas isn't trying to stop himself from breathing too hard. He's trying to stop himself from crying.

James lets out a little choked noise and hunches forward in his chair, bending in on himself as they reach the automatic doors.

They slide open.

The Madisons and Thomas walk through in agonising silence.

The receptionist-slash-nurse, a young-faced man in blue scrubs, looks up as he hears them enter. The quiet whoosh of the doors. The squeaking of the chair and the trolley, the footsteps. "This is intensive care, I'm afraid you've got the wrong -"

"No mistake." Even James' dad's voice is the tiniest bit shaky. "We're here for Alexander Hamilton, Ward 9?"

Blue Scrubs' face relaxes into a smile. "Gee, good news travels fast, don't it, sir? Right through those doors and first on your right."

"G-good news," James can't help but stutter, halting his father's stride as his mom and Thomas set off.

"Yeah, honey, didn't you hear? He woke up just half an hour ago. He's stable."

The shout that echoes around the empty pastel plastic waiting room is startling enough because it doesn't come from any of the Madisons. James is utterly shellshocked as the news hits him, hardly daring to believe that he's heard right. His parents are equally dumbfounded. No, the cry comes from no less than Thomas Eustace Randolph Jefferson, who, by the time it's fully sunk into the Madisons' head that Alex is _awake_ and _stable_ , has already dropped everything he was carrying and bolted through the doors and into the private room where the patient himself is sitting up in bed, eyes open - _awake_ - _stable_ \- with George and Martha Washington by his side.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Jeffershit," says Alex cheerfully. Clearly he is very aware of the liberties that can be taken in front of one's parents when one has just woken up from a coma. "I must say I didn't think that you'd bother - oof -"

Thomas crosses the room in two steps and hugs him.

"Am I in some alternate universe?" Alex demands, muffled, of Thomas' purple-wool-clad shoulder.

"Shut up, shut up, Alex, you piece of - I - don't do it again! This!" Thomas gestures randomly. "Never again!"

"I don't make promises to the likes of you, _Tom_." The patient's eyes are shining with what he will probably claim until his dying day is humour, but is in fact - well, I think you can guess.

"Rot in hell."

"Absolutely, and I'll see you there. Mads!" This with a surprised exclamation as James wheels himself up, machines parked next to the doorway, next to Alex's own heart monitor, and joins in the embrace. "This is the gayest shit I've ever been part of."

"Ham," says James with a half-sob. "You _are_ gay."

"I'm bisexual, there's a difference. Aw, man, don't cry. Look! It's your old pal, Hamilton! Alive and raring to go! Isn't this enough?"

James presses his head against his friend's bony shoulder and feels his boyfriend squeeze his hand tightly and decides yes, yes, this is enough. At last, even despite the pain and the sickness and the worry and the sleepless nights, this is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I disgust even myself with my own story's fluffy cutesiness. But don't worry, children, it's over now.
> 
> PS. Don't ask me how Usnavi ended up moving his bodega to a service station off a part of the I-81 motorway going through Nowheresville, Virginia, because I sure as shit don't know.
> 
> PPS. For all you peasants who don't know Latin, that motto means 'Patience and Faith Will Guard Us'. 
> 
> PPPS. 1 Comment = one vote for Lin-Manuel Miranda as President of the Galaxy!


End file.
